


beneath the milky twilight

by starblessed



Category: Anastasia - Flaherty/Ahrens/McNally, The Greatest Showman (2017)
Genre: A whole lot of kissing, Drabble Collection, F/M, Kissing, Not a Crossover, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Prompt, kiss prompts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-06
Updated: 2018-03-08
Packaged: 2019-03-28 00:19:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 6,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13892223
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starblessed/pseuds/starblessed
Summary: The morning dawns slow and sleepy, like honey poured over the midnight sky. It drips languidly down, blanketing the world in gold. The air is still light and cool, the summer heat not yet having infiltrated the sanctuary they’ve found in each others’ arms.(A collection of short kiss prompts from my tumblr!)





	1. hesitant kiss - anne/phillip - tgs

**Author's Note:**

> I got about ten of [these prompts](http://marienikolaevnas.tumblr.com/post/171486165774/types-of-kisses-prompts)!) on Tumblr, and I want them all in one spot! 
> 
> Most of them are going to be short, around 500 words.

There are a thousand unspoken promises between them, a thousand things to say; but they can find the courage for none of them.

Maybe it makes them cowards. Anne wonders about this in the rare, fleeting seconds when Phillip is not holding her; when his  hands do not caress her bare skin. She thinks of the world outside, and cringes away from it. She imagines how they would react to see her on the arm of a white man, and something inside her shrivels up.

Phillip… is different. It is as if he’s never known fear.

Even twenty feet above the ground, with nothing but a steel hoop keeping him aloft, he does not seem frightened. (This could have something to do with the fact that he hasn’t looked down once. All of his attention is trained solely on Anne.)

This is the difference between them, she realizes. Phillip will always be looking up from the ground. Anne belongs in the sky, but  will never be able to keep herself from looking down at the ground.

Is there some place between them where they can coexist, in perfect harmony? Somewhere between heaven and earth that belongs only to them?

His lips are everywhere. They trace her jaw, her collar, her shoulders, the skin right behind her ears… never daring to find a home for themselves. They are more phantom touches than kisses. Her entire body feels electrified. She can feel the echo of Phillip in every cell of her body, and she craves more, more, even as his lips are constantly on the move.

She is the one who guides him up to her mouth. She knows she shouldn’t; she knows it is wrong, in the long run, impossible. Yet she can not resist, up here in the air.

Her lips hover over hers, and hesitate. She can feel their tantalizing caress, no more than a whisper. They have not yet become corporeal to her. They are still a thought, a fantasy instead of reality. His breath warms her face, and she unwillingly breathes in.

Her mouth closes the distance between them. Suddenly, they are both flying.

 _Yes,_ Anne decides. Yes, a place definitely exists just for them… and she has found it right here.


	2. unbreakable kiss - dmitry/anya - anastasia

“It’s going to be too late,” she whispers into Dmitry’s collar. “There won’t be enough time for us all to get out. They’re coming.”

“No.” He clutches her tighter, more fiercely, as if he can pull her into himself and never let her go. As if he can protect her from the world. It’s a futile dream, straight from the mind of a scared little boy who spent his nights on the street praying that his papa would come back. The Dmitry Of then vowed he would never let anyone else he cared about he taken.

He compromised for his helplessness by not caring about anyone at all... until Anya.

Anya changed everything.

Now he’s about to lose her to, and there isn’t a damn thing he can do about it.  


“No,” he says again, gripping her until she grunts from the force. “There’s another way. Come with us, they won’t catch you, well stay together —“

“They’re looking for me, Dmitry! You and Vlad go! Get on the train. They won’t catch you if they’re distracted with me, I’m who they want!”

Her expression is fierce and wild. Wide eyes brim with tears, but she does not tear them from Dmitry’s face. She clutches him as tightly as he does her. Neither can stand to let go.

“I won’t leave you, Anya.” He cups her face, forcing back tears that threaten to choke him. He was the one who started this mad search for Anastasia; she doesn’t deserve to pay. “I did this.”

“No, you didn’t,” she answers softly. “It was always me.”

He can hear shouting outside the doors; their barricade won’t last forever. The guards will break it down any minute, and it will be over for both of them. They’re running out of time, but Dmitry can’t go.

“I won’t leave you,” he gasps out again. “I won’t, I _can’t_ —“

His words are swallowed up by Anya’s lips. For one second, the world slips into perfect alignment. He can feel everything: the heat of her mouth against his, the desperation of her hold, the panicked rhythm of her heart against his chest. When he grips her, she makes a soft noise against him, and he is able to imagine they are somewhere else. Somewhere that this spell will not break, that this moment can last forever. Somewhere they will not be torn away from each other.

For one glorious second, it seems like this will last forever.

Then Anya pulls back, wide eyed, and swallows a gasp. Tears stream down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry, Dima,” she whispers.

_I love you._

He cannot say it — can barely even think it — before she wrenches herself away from him.

“Go,” she exclaims, and shoves him down the hall. _“Go!”_  


Dmitry doesn’t think, isn’t able to think. His fight or flight instinct kicks in. He runs.  


As he scrambles out the window, the last thing he hears are the guards breaking down the door behind him. From Anya, there is only silence.   



	3. post break-up kiss - dmitry/anya - anastasia

Anya might call it a break-up, but Dmitry wouldn’t go that far. They’ve crossed borders together. They’ve hiked across Russia, leapt from moving trains, and resurrected a princess. Even after all of that, Anya still _chose him_. They’ve been through so much that a simple argument doesn’t stand a chance at shattering what they’ve built, and he knows it

Does Anya? Somehow, he isn’t sure. When remembers the look on her face, heartbreak and fury mixed into something he couldn’t stand to look at for more than a moment, he just _doesn’t know._

He wants to believe they’re stronger than this. He still loves her, even when he hates her. 

But does Anya feel the same way?

The apartment is quiet when he gets back. Snow is falling in fat flakes from the sky, and Dmitry didn’t grab a hat before he stormed out, so he probably looks like the abominable snowman. His fingers are so frozen that he can barely fumble with his keys; but when he tries the lock, he realizes the door is open.

The apartment is silent as he steps in. The only sound that echoes through the house is him, shutting the door behind him and dropping his keys on the hook. Once that is done, all goes silent. He’s able to bear it for two seconds before he absolutely has to see Anya.

He finds her sitting up on the couch, a book open in her lap. She’s staring blankly down at it; she doesn’t move, doesn’t breathe. Hey eyes do not scan the page. Maybe she’s been crying, but it’s hard for Dmitry to be sure; she looks worn out and puffy all over. In this moment, the last thing anyone could think to call her is “princess”. Anya just looks world-weary and old for her age.

Dmitry takes a step forward. She doesn’t look up. He keeps moving, unhesitant, until he reaches the back of the couch.

“Anya,” he says. She doesn’t look up, or even stir. Something sour twists in his gut. “Anya, please —“

He lays a hand on her shoulder, and this is what breaks the spell. Anya springs to her feet, reeling around to face him, and Dmitry is startled for all of a split second before he feels lips press furiously against his.

Her kiss is fierce and wild, everything most beautiful about her. She doesn’t hold herself back; it would not have occurred to her to even try. She bleeds emotion through her lips, trying to force them into Dmitry’s body through contact alone. For a moment, he is so breathless that all he can do is open his mouth to let her in.

_Yes,_ he realizes. This is what they want. It’s what they need. This is the reassurance that they’ll be okay, that they haven’t been broken. They _need_ this.

He pulls her close, and kisses her back.

When they finally part, it takes a moment for Dmitry to realize how awkward their position is. Anya is on her knees on the couch, leaning over the back. He’s practically clutching her in his arms. If he backed away, he could pull her over the back of the couch completely.

Anya realizes this at the same time he does. When she looks up at him, something incomprehensible sparks in her wide blue eyes.

“This isn’t our end, Dima,” she tells him.

Somehow, despite all the odds, he finds himself cracking a smile.

“You really are dense,” he mutters. “Don’t you think I already knew that?”


	4. quick goodbye kiss - anne/phillip - tgs

“No, no, Lettie, I _can’t_ take a tour around today —“  
  
“Phil!” Anne’s voice echoed from the bathroom. “Have you seen my mascara?”  
  
“I’m sorry, I just don’t have the time! Robbie and Walter want to work on that new routine!”  
  
“The mascara, Phil!”  
  
“No, I — I can’t tell them I’ve got something more important! Walter gets jealous, we know that already.”  
  
“Phillip!”  
  
Phillip sighs into his cell phone, slapping a piece of bread on top of the sandwich he’s tossing together one-handed. He quickly slices it in half and shoves it in a plastic bag, tossing this into the brown bag he’s been packing. Today is going to be a busy day: a matinee and evening show, plus two schools visiting the circus on field trips. The acrobats and dancers will be giving separate presentations for the kids, so Anne’s got a lot to look forward to as well. Still, that’s no reason to miss lunch.  
  
He adjusts his cell phone against his shoulder, and glances at the digital clock on the wall. “Lettie, someone else will have to show around Mrs. Gordon’s class — Anne, it’s eight-fifteen!”  
  
A loud yell rings out from the bathroom. Seconds later, Anne tears down the hallway, still smacking her glossy lips together. Despite the hecticness of this entire morning, her hair is pulled into an (albeit messy) bun, and her makeup is as striking as ever. She’s ready for the day ahead, which is more than Phillip can say for himself.  
  
“I gotta go, I beat the traffic,” she exclaims, pulling on her jacket. He swallows a grin when she first shoves her arm in the wrong sleeve, and has to pause to reorient herself.  
  
“You’re hardly that late.” He fishes in the fridge for a Tupperware of grapes, pulls them out, and tosses them in his lunch bag as well. “I’m the one in trouble, I’m not even dressed.”  
  
“You walk, I drive. Big difference.”  
  
“I know it.” As she fumbles for her keys, he nudged then towards her hand. Then he presses the brow bag into her free one. “I made you lunch. Peanut butter and banana sandwich, you disgust me.”  
  
“I know it,” she echoes, eyes lighting up. As Phillip starts to turn around, she catches him, wrapping an arm around his neck. He barely has the chance to blink before she presses a quick kiss to his lips.  
  
“Goodbye, I love you,” she says, a tiny smile on her face. “See you at the show.”  
  
She breezes out the door, a whirlwind of fresh-smelling perfume and jean jacket. Phillip stares after her, a tiny smile on his face.  
  
Just for a few seconds this morning, he can take the time to breathe. Anne has an incredible way of slowing down time and reminding him just how beautiful life is.  
  
Then he hears Lettie’s tiny voice floating from the phone still on the counter, and realizes he’s got twenty minutes to be out the door before he’s officially late for work. The world presses play once more, and the morning begins again.  
  



	5. in the moment kiss - dmitry/anya - anastasia

Anya is certain she has never been this angry in her life.

Okay, well. The entire week. Maybe. She spends most of her spare time these days around Dmitry, so wishing she could punch (a specific) someone in the face is nothing revolutionary. The fact that she hasn’t yet is a testament to her self-restraint.

Instead, she tries to punch Dmitry with her words, because it’s the only other thing she has. “How can you even  _think_ that?”

He sneers back at her, smug and unflinching. Everything about him makes her blood boil. “How can you say I’m wrong?”

“Because I’ve never heard anything so stupid in my life!”

“You spend all day listening to yourself think, so that’s a really high bar!”  


She shouldn’t do it; she  _knows_  she shouldn’t do it. A grand duchess (in training) is above violence in every sense of the word.

Anya, the scrappy Petersburg street sweeper, is not. Thankfully, Anya has no qualms about pulling off her shoe and hurling it at Dmitry’s head.

He ducks just in time, but it’s a neat thing. The loafer sails through the place his head was just seconds ago, and smacks the wall with a thud. It leaves a dark shoeprint on the old plaster.

“What the _hell —“_

Dmitry springs back up, incredulous and furious. He takes a few large steps forward before Anya stops him in his tracks.

She was not expecting him to get this close, but _Dmitry_ doesn’t expect her to push back. Surprise flashes across his face when her hands lock around his shoulders, tugging him even closer to her. (At this point, she doesn’t know why he’s shocked — she has never not fought back against him. As long as they are arguing, they’re on equal ground.)

Once she has a lock on his shoulders, she’s able to steer him; and really it’s his fault for getting so close. She’s not just angry, she’s furious, and all she wants is to prove to Dmitry how outraged she is.

“You really don’t believe me?” she demands, shoving him back against the wall. “I’ll _prove_ it to you.”

She does exactly that when she kisses him.

It wasn’t supposed to happen. She didn’t _set out_ to kiss him. She’s not sure _what_ she intended to do, but planting her lips on Dmitry didn’t cross her mind until the second all her instincts drove her to close the gap between them. Really, kissing him does nothing to prove her argument; but as soon as their lips lock, she forgets what their argument is, so it doesn’t really matter. 

It takes only a few seconds before she feels Dmitry press back against her. She makes a small noise, satisfied with everything about this moment, and presses more of her weight into him. He supports her, one hand around her waist, the other cupping the back of her neck.

She feels his teeth graze over her lip, and euphoria bursts like fireworks in her head. A second later, he pulls away, and she is left  with the dying explosions.

For a moment, all either of them can do is stare at each other, wide-eyed. Anya wants to smile, but won’t allow herself to. Dmitry’s face is so red that he looks a second away from exploding himself.

“This still doesn’t mean you’re right,” he finally manages after a moment.

Anya lets out a shriek of fury, and pushes herself away from him. 


	6. early morning kiss - dmitry/anya - anastasia

The morning dawns slow and sleepy, like honey poured over the midnight sky. It drips slowly down, blanketing the world in gold. The air is still light and cool, the summer heat not yet having infiltrated the thin walls of the apartment.  
  
Anya shifts against the solid body beneath her, resting her chin on the nearest flat plain she can find. She pries her heavy eyes open just to spite the magnetism intent on holding them shut, and allows  the gentle rhythm of Dmitry’s breathing to soothe her.  
  
He is always so much more peaceful when he’s asleep — less the man he was forced to become, more the boy he never got the chance to be. He looks young. His brow is relaxed, a placid look on his face. Light snores drift through the air, unlabored and relaxed. His lips are parted, allowing drool to dampen the pillow under his head.  
  
Okay, no one ever said he was a graceful sleeper.  
  
Still, Anya loves him. Looking at Dmitry like this, she is convinced she’s never loved anyone so much in her life.  
  
(Does he wake up before her some mornings and lie there, admiring her? Does he ever marvel at the way their lives have turned out? Does he ever bask in gratitude, in joy, that they have these peaceful moments to share with each other in what hopefully will be a peaceful life?)  
  
Gently, she leans down, and presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth. Dmitry doesn’t stir.  
  
It’s alright. Anya has everything she wants right here. She couldn’t imagine this moment interrupted for anything in the world.  



	7. hesitant kiss - anne/phillip - tgs

The important thing isn’t that he knows what to say (because, if he’s being honest with himself — something he tries to avoid as much as possible — he really doesn’t). It’s that he got Anne to hear him out at all.

“I know you’re angry at me,” he says in a rush. “You’ve got every right to be.”

“I am so _thrilled_ to have your permission.”

Anne doesn’t turn around; she continues untangling her armful of ropes, completely bent over her task. At her side, W.D. eyes Phillip coolly. It would be too much, he knows, to ask for this moment alone; W.D. wont leave his sister to fend for herself.  _God,_ though, would privacy make this easier.

“You hate me right now, and I understand that. I was… a complete fool. A coward.”

Anne doesn’t reply. Over her shoulder, W.D. makes a deadpan spinning gesture, and mouths  _Keep going._

“I’m an ass.”

She barks out a laugh.

“But if you would just let me explain…”

Like a flash, Anne is on her feet. He sees the exact moment she tips over the edge, from cool anger into boiling hot rage. When she lunges forward, hands balled into fists at her side, suddenly Phillip forgets how to breathe.

“Why?” she demands, no longer keeping her voice down. Now she’s shouting in his face; each word hits like its own individual bullet, and Phillip can only endure them. “You think you surprised me at all? You think I stayed up all night wondering why? I know exactly why you did what you did, Phillip Carlyle, and I know how you see the world. How you see me! I’m not some toy whose emotions you can jerk around as you wish. I’m not something to be ashamed of! I am a human being! I am a black woman, and I’m  _sorry_ you can’t bear to be seen with me in front of your society friends. I am so,  _so_ sorry for you!”

She ends her tirade with her chest heaving, breaths escaping labored from her lungs. For a second, she has to screw her eyes shut and collect herself. When she opens her eyes, her expression is cold again. “You don’t have to explain a damn thing to me.”

W.D. is on his feet behind them. There is nothing Phillip can say without him hearing, nothing he can do that wouldn’t compel the elder Wheeler to remove him from his sister by any means necessary. It seems even to lay a hand on Anne’s shoulder now would invite an explosion. She is a stick of dynamite waiting for a spark.

He can only think of one thing that W.D. could not see… the one thing that’s plagued his mind since the night of the concert, when he met his parents’ eyes and let her go.

He takes her hand — gently, gently, because her fists still tremble with suppressed fury and her fingernails dig deep enough into her palms to draw blood — and raises it up. Her heart is pounding; his breath feels caught in his lungs. Every second, he expects her to take a swing at his eye, and he would deserve it.

Anne’s gaze, however, is locked on him — rapt, sharp, and curious. She does not pull away.

He gazes down at her hand with something close to reverence. This is the same hand Phillip got the chance to hold, a chance he so callously threw away. If he hadn’t cared so much….

No, if only he had cared more, about the things that really matter.He keeps his eyes locked on Anne’s own, and haltingly raises the dark side of her hand to his lips. He takes a breath before pressing a kiss to her knuckles.

She doesn’t move; he is paralyzed. They remain locked in that position for one moment, Phillip’s head bowed before her, her hand hovering against his lips. They brush together once, twice, three times, never daring to linger for more than a butterfly’s breath. He does not deserve to kiss her; he doesn’t deserve any more than what she is willing to give. His kisses are as tentative as whispers.

When Phillip pulls away, he can feel his heart beating again; for a moment, he’d been sure it stopped. Gently, he drops her hand back to her side.

“Anytime,” he murmurs, in a whisper that can belong only to the two of them. “Anywhere. Forever.”

Anne takes a shuddering breath through parted lips; and then turns away.“W.D, come on,” she announces. “We’ve got to get these ropes straightened out before rehearsal!”

She returns to her work without another glance back at Phillip. He catches W.D.’s eyes for a moment, cool and inquisitive, but he gives nothing away when he turns his own back. 

He apologized. Now all Phillip can hope is that it was enough.


	8. early morning kiss - dmitry/anya - anastasia

“Do you have your coat?” Anya exclaims, rushing towards the coat closet like a bird in flight. Dmitry has to slide out of her way to keep from getting run down.

“I’m going to miss the train, Anya.”

“I know, I know, but you can’t go without your — oh!” She springs out of the closet, victorious, clutching an armful of canvas. “I found it!”

Dmitry gives an unenthusiastic round of applause.

Anya’s eyes gleam as she shuts the closet door behind him and makes her way back to his side. When she reaches him, she tucks the coat around his shoulders, and Dmitry’s arms slide into it. She is close enough that he can see the freckles dancing across her nose and the flyaway hairs that frame her face. Once upon a time, this proximity would have felt dangerous, impossible. Now it is the most comfortable thing in the world.

“You can’t go anywhere without your coat,” she chides softly. “It’s raining out. When you get wet, you look like a dog after bath time .”

“At least _I_ don’t smell like one.”

She aims a smack at his shoulder that holds no force behind it. He grins, hand finding her own. It is all too easy to raise their hands between them, feeling the steady pulse of heat and intimacy between their palms. This is the same chapped hand that once held teacups and golden ornaments; the one that clutched a broom in the alleys of Petersburg; and now, Anya holds /him/.

He just might be the luckiest street kid in the world.

Anya leans up just as he leans down; and their lips meet, brief and fervent, for just a moment. The kiss says all Dmitry could ever want.

They part with no more than a breath, and Anya smirks at him. She adjusts his collar, smooths back his bangs, and pulls the raincoat’s heavy hood up over his head, all in the space of a second.

“Okay,” she nods to herself. “Now, don’t miss your train!”

Dmitry’s hand squeezes her one last time before he pulls away.


	9. in the moment kiss - anne/phillip - tgs

He dreams that the circus is burning, and Anne is trapped underneath the tent.  
  
He knows it’s a dream, because she dances through the flames around her like a phantom. She does not crumble like a pillar of ash, does not throw her arms up and scream. Anne contorts in the most unnatural ways possible, limbs twisting and spine folding itself in two, as fire licks at her limbs. Her hair singes; her flesh burns away from her crispening bones. Even when all that is left of her is a ghoulish skeleton’s face, she still writhes in the flames.  
  
And Phillip is paralyzed. He can feel the flames licking at his own skin, but cannot move, cannot yell, cannot tear his eyes away from the grotesque vision in front of him. Smoke chokes his lungs; his head skins; his body screams as the heat intensifies to unbearable. Still, he cannot move. He cannot save her, or even try.  
  
Phillip wakes up with all the screams his dream would not allow bursting from his throat.  
  
He is not aware of anything at first except darkness (there are no flames here, at least, _thank god)_ and heat confining his legs (he tries to twist but he’s _trapped,_ so trapped, and he can’t fight his way out). Panic takes over, and he begins thrashing along with his yells, until panic is all he knows, all he is able to feel.  
  
He does not hear a voice calling to him. He does not feel the worried hands that paw at his back and shoulders. He cannot feel Anne lying right beside him, but some part of him is aware of her fear, and it only antagonizes him further.  
  
Perhaps he is talking through his screams — babbling words unchecked in between panic and sobs. He does not know; it’s impossible to say. His eyes search the darkness for anything to ground him, but he cannot recognize his surroundings. The entire world was fire, but now it has all gone dark. The fire smoldered, and he is the only thing left alive…  
  
“Baby, hear me!”  
  
A voice penetrates the edges of his awareness. For a second, he can not recognize it.  
  
“Hear me, Phillip. Come on. I know you can. You’ve gotta come back to me, _come on…”_  
  
“Anne,” he gasps out. “Anne.”  
  
When he is finally conscious of his love at his side, he wonders how he ever lost sight of her. He latched onto her presence. Anne is real and alive, right next to him, whispering, holding him like she’s his entire world. She is, he realizes; in this moment, Anne is all that exists.  
  
“I’m right here,” she says again, and he fights to control his frantic breathing. “You’re safe, Phil. I’ve got you. Breathe for me.”  
  
He’s trying. He’s trying.  
  
Anne’s own brows are furrowed; she was asleep moment ago, but now her eyes are bright with fear and concern. Knowing that he’s frightened her is the worst part of all of this, and Phillip can’t restrain another sob when it tears from him.  
  
“Hey. Hold on to me,” she whispers, voice soothing as a psalm. “It’s okay, I’m here. I’m right here. Hold on to me.”  
  
Phillip reaches over and grips her, burying his face in his chest. He never wants to let her go; he’s not sure he could stand to let her go. A ring of fire still encircles his mind, and Anne is all that keeps the flames at bay.  
  
She is here, though, and she won’t let him go either. Her hand rubs up and down his back in a soothing rhythm. Her lips caress his fevered brow. She smooths his hair back from his face, and whispers promises of safety to his temples.  
  
Slowly, he remembers how to breathe. His sobs die down to whimpers. The panic that was all-consuming is not the barest whisper, a tiny knot inside his chest.  
  
“I’m okay,” he finally manages, and his voice only shakes a little. “I’ll be okay.”  
  
Anne’s voice is unimaginably gentle. “I know you will.”  
  
When he lifts his head, it is the most natural thing in the world to kiss her. She is waiting for him; as soon as their lips connect, her hand is on the back of his neck, and she pushes gently into him. He can still feel her rubbing up and down his spine, soothing him. His tears moisten her cheeks, but if she minds, she gives no indication.  
  
He cannot imagine any greater comfort in this moment than Anne’s kiss. She is still here; he did not fail to save her in the inferno that came so close to taking his life. She’s here, they are okay, and they have long, happy lives to look forward to. _Together._  
  
He deepens the kiss, and smiles against her lips.  



	10. distracting kiss - anne/phillip - tgs

Stage fright is not an opponent Anne battles on a daily basis.  
  
One of the first things Phillip marveled over when he saw her was how confident she is in front of a crowd. She commands the stage like she was born to stand there. Every movement she makes is fluid and natural; every gesture, smile, flip and somersault in the air… everything about Anne on stage _glows_ so brightly that you’d think she didn’t know the meaning of the word _fear_.  
  
Phillip’s dealt with stage fright from a lot of his performers since taking over the show. It’s just part of the ringmaster’s job. Lettie’s over the worst of it, but still suffers occasional attacks. Occasionally, the Irish Giant is to anxious to go on, and they have to find someone else to replace him that night (including a memorable evening that featured O’Malley on stilts). It’s hard to lose confident Florence  in a crowd, but Mary sometimes just _vanishes,_ nowhere to be found; they have to perform with only one albino twin that night. Even Charles once got so nervous that he actually fired his gun _into_ the crowd (if he wasn’t shooting blanks, it would have been a catastrophe).  
  
Even Phillip has dealt with the occasional case of anxiety before tryin out something new in the ring. He can still remember how his stomach felt ready to leap out his throat the first time he pulled Anne in for a kiss in front of their audience. He knows the pain of stage-fright, and has seen it from almost everyone.  
  
Not Anne, though. Never Anne.  
  
Anne is fearless in the ring, and that is what Phillips admires most about her. She’s always willing to try something once. Even if it terrifies him at times (but he’s gotten used to terror, watching the woman he loves sail thirty feet in the air every day), he can never not admire Anne’s lionhearted gall during performances.  
  
This is a whole new side of Anne that he’s never seen before. Honestly, he doesn’t know how to deal with it.  


“Forget it,” she declares, scrambling over spare props and crates to make it to the tent’s back exit. “Forget _all_ of this! I’m not going out there tonight!”  
  
All Phillip can do is rush after her, desperate not to lose their headlining act in the middle of the show. Lettie and the Bunker twins can only command the attention of the audience for so long before they’ll start demanding the real act. These people have come here to see what was advertised: the famous Wheeler siblings, performing acrobatics on top of an elephant.  
  
When Barnum suggested it, it’s seemed like the best idea the circus has had in ages. It would certainly bring in the crowds. People loved seeing risky stunts incorporated into the show — Phillip likes to believe they enjoy the thrill of danger, rather than a macabre sense of curiosity.  
  
Both Anne and W.D. were game from the start; so they rehearsed, they trained, they perfected their act, and finally, finally, were ready to debut it.  
  
Ready, up to a few minutes ago.  
  
“Anne —“  
  
“No!” she exclaims, throwing a hand over her shoulder. She hasn’t stopped running since she fled the ringside, and Phillip doubts she’ll slow down just because he asks her to.  
  
She’s almost to the tent exit. He can see the moonlight gleaming through the flaps ahead of her, and his heart leaps. He can’t let Anne go, not without making sure she’s okay.   
  
Anne clears one final hurdle on her way out. Phillip might be as fast as her, but he isn’t quite so nimble. He trips over the poofy wig someone’s left discarded on the ground, and winds up sprawled on his face.  
  
For a moment, the impact of the ground knocks everything else out. When he fades back to awareness, it’s to an exclamation of “Phillip!” and sudden hands prodding at him.  
  
“Ow. I’m okay. Ow!” He sits up, shaking off the blow (which rattled his teeth, but thankfully not much else). When he lifts his head, it’s to Anne knelt at his side, staring down at him in concern.  
  
“Are you okay?” The words leave his lips before they can leave hers. She blinks at him, startled, and furrows her brow.  
  
“Me? You’re the one who just fell over!”  
  
“You ran away,” he answers, placing a hand on her shoulder. “You never run away.”  
  
He can see her closing up again. He’s witnessed her guards going up so many times by now that he’s got it down to a science; he’d notice if she did it on her sleep. Anne’s expression shutters, her eyes grow hard, and she pulls back as if she doesn’t want to touch him.  
  
“I’m fine,” she retorts. “Nothing wrong with me.”  
  
If Phillip believed that, he’d have to have taken a much harder blow to the head. “Okay,” he replies. “So lets get back to the show.”  
  
There’s the red button. Anne’s lips twist, and she pulls away from his touch. “You are not getting me up on that elephant!” Anne hisses harshly. When Phillip brings a hand up to try and cup her face, she turns her head.  
  
It’s impossible to get Anne Wheeler to do anything she doesn’t want to. Phillip had figured this out over excruciating trial-and-error. When Anne is set against something — be it risky acrobatic stunts or wearing one pair of shoes over the other that day — no force on earth can change her mind.  
  
Phillip just doesn’t understand why she’s changed her own mind now. Just this afternoon, Anne was _ready_ for this.  
  
“Tell me what’s wrong.”  
  
“Nothing’s wrong!”  
  
“Just _tell_ me, Anne!”  
  
Finally, she turns to face him. Her brows are furrowed in anger, and Phillip realizes with a jolt that it’s directed towards herself. “I can’t get up on that thing in front of all those people,” she exclaims, hushed and furious. “Something’s gonna go wrong. The crowd will spook Betsy, W.D. won’t catch me, _something_ will go wrong! I can’t do it, okay? I can’t!” She takes a deep, shuddering breath, and grits her teeth. “I’ve never been this nervous in my life.”  
  
“Anne —“  
  
“No!” She stands up abruptly. Unwilling to let her escape again, Phillip springs to his feet as well. Anne is a second away from bolting; he can see it in her posture, poised like a bird ready to take flight.  
  
He has to stop her from running. He’s got to snap her out of it.  
  
“You don’t need to be afraid,” he declares, and then kisses her.  
  
It’s so abrupt that _he’s_ barely expecting it, let alone Anne. He tugs her arm and suddenly she is against him; suddenly his hand cups the back of her head, and soft lips are pressed to his own. He swallows up her gasp, and the tiny moan that follows. Instead, he presses forward and kisses her as fervently as he’s ever kissed her in his life.  
  
There’s so much he wants to tell her, and he replies on his lips to say it all. _I won’t let you get hurt. I’ll be right there. You will be fine. I know you’re fearless._  
  
When they pull away, they do not part. Anne remains pressed to him, all her weight braced against his chest. Her eyes are wide, gazing up like she’s seeing him for the first time. When she opens her mouth, no sound comes out.  
  
“What do you think?” Phillip says. “Because I believe you can do this.”  
  
It takes a moment — a long moment, in which Phillip is almost convinced that all her effort was for naught — before Anne nods her head, haltingly, like she’s still trying to catch her breath.  
  
“You’re right,” she says, and takes his hand. “Let’s go.”  



	11. in the moment kiss - dmitry/anya - anastasia

“Anya, we- we’re going to get in trouble!”

Her eyes flash back at him, electric and alive. “Since when have you ever cared about that?”  


He hates that she’s right. He hates her for being right. He hates that he has no real argument against her being right, because she knows just how right she is. More than anything else, he _hates_ the Eiffel Tower.

“I never thought the Prince of Petersburg would be afraid of heights,” she teases.

“I’m not afraid of heights,” he fires back — very stubbornly not looking down. “I’m afraid of falling from a great height. Like any sensible person.”

“I’m not afraid of heights.”

“I said _sensible.”_

She laughs in his face — a loud and obnoxious _hah!_ that makes her sound like a horse — before tugging him further along. He tries to resist, digging his heels into the metal beneath his feet, but Anya’s force just pulls him off balance. He’d prefer to stay on his feet, if he’s forced to be hundreds of feet in the air. He would at least like to die standing.

They probably shouldn’t be all the way at the top of the tower, _certainly_ not this close to midnight. Dmitry isn’t sure they’re allowed to visit so late (Anya insists they are); he also doesn’t think they ought to be at the very top, but that’s more a personal preference.

Anya, however, is exuberant. Even with the late hour, and the otherwise isolation of the tower’s top deck, Dmitry isn’t sure he’s ever seen her look more thrilled. She darts from place to place as is her feet can’t bear to hold still for more than a second. She grips the railing with both hands, peering down at the world spread far below her. The City of Lights is reflected in her eyes.

She shines, thinks Dmitry, brighter than all the stars in the sky.

Now that she’s finally stopped pulling him, he can salvage what little dignity he’s still got. He presses himself as far away from the railing as possible. Instead of focusing on the dizzying drop to the ground, he keeps his eyes trained on Anya.

“Oh, gosh, Dima,” she breathes, smile beaming on her face. “It’s so beautiful. It’s one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever seen.”

Anya remembers a childhood filled with nothing but pretty things, so this is high praise.

“If you fall,” Dmitry comments, managing to sound more wry than borderline-hyperventilating, “I won’t catch you.”

“I won’t fall, you jerk, but — _look —“_ She claps a hand to her mouth, no longer looking down, but up. A sharp gasp escapes her. “I think I saw a shooting star!”

It’s true. The darkness of the sky is illuminated with thousands of little beads of light, but Dmitry didn’t notice any of them zipping through the sky. Telling Anya this, however, feels almost like kicking a puppy. When he sees the sheer wonder on her face, he can’t help but smile.

“Come over here,” he suggests. “You can see them better.”

Mostly, it’s an attempt to get her away from the perilous ledge; but he’s not lying. From where he stands, the entire sky is laid out before him like a vast, sprawling canvas. The moment Anya steps up to his side, she lets out a whisper of amazement.

“It’s beautiful,” she gasps. “I remember a view like this… on vacation with my family in the Crimea. The sky used to shine all night, and we’d try to catch shooting stars in our hands…”

She trails off with that same soft, distant smile she always gets when talking about her family; like remembering something from a dream. Unconsciously, Dmitry feels his arm wind it’s way around her shoulders.

She leans into him. “Dima,” she whispers, turning just enough to tilt her head up towards him. “I’m so in love.”

At his questioning look, her eyes only glow brighter. “With this place. This moment. With you. I love it all more than I can stand.”

When she leans up and kisses him, it’s not really a surprise; it seems like a natural continuation of this tiny instant that they’ve stolen, just for each other. Everything about it feels right, from the press of Anya’s lips against his, to the warmth of her body.

When Dmitry leans into her, suddenly it does not matter that they are miles about the ground. As long as he and Anya are floating in the sky, all they need is each other.


End file.
